Picture Perfect
by Osidiano
Summary: Written in response to a challenge on Freedom of Speech, [Tabloid shipping]. Boys are notoriously bad at communicating, these ones especially so.


Author's Note: Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Yu-Gi-Oh!, or either of the characters used in this story. They belong to Kazuki Takahashi, and whoever he sold his soul to. This story was written solely for the amusement of those choosing to read it, and no copyright infringement was intended. All original ideas/concepts and the story itself are original (_duh_) and belong to me. Do not steal. This story has been edited from the original; it was originally a lemon. My _first _lemon, no less. If you are interested in reading the story in its entirety, go to Freedom of Speech, or email me.

**Picture Perfect**

Black hair, tangled and knotted from fitful sleep, fanned across the pillow's surface, leaving the sun-darkened shoulder of its owner bare and naked to the cool night air. A blue-eyed gaze brushed over the prone form, creeping up the small arm and passing the shoulder to slide down a smooth and imperfect back. There were scratches in the skin, long red lines where nails had been pressed in and drug through bloodlessly during the night. Halfway down, the sleeper's ribs could be seen, rising ridges like tiny landscapes. They did not protrude, did not scream of malnourishment or underfeeding, simply a reminder of thin genetics working in tandem with an active persona. With less exercise, the sleeper would not have been so skinny.

Blue eyes stopped at the edge of the blanket, brought up over the sleeper's lower back. From there on, the body lost shape, becoming nondescript lumps on the mattress in the dim lighting afforded by the night sky that snuck in through the open bedroom window. The sleeper's companion reached for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, strong fingers curling around a lighter on the way back. It had been a compromise brought on after two hours of screaming at each other; the sleeper had been promised sex and a daily "I love you," and the companion was allowed a slow suicide.

Orange flame flickered up from the lighter, identifying the companion as male and illuminating some of his features for a moment as he lit up. Slanted lapis eyes in an angular face, a sharp, prominent nose over thin lips pressed tight around his cigarette. His skin was pale, but the sleepless bruising under his eyes was dark and the contrast could not go without notice. Likewise, attention was drawn to the heavy lines around his mouth, formed by a decade of frowns and black scowls. He was eighteen, but with his cold and embittered demeanor, his jaded gaze, and the sickness sleeping deep within, he could have easily passed for thirty-five.

Grey smoke wafted up to the ceiling as he exhaled slowly, watching it drift towards the window and freedom as he fed his addiction, wallowing in self-disgust as he committed himself to a disgraceful and cancerous demise. Still, he supposed that it could be worse; after all, the most vulgar and despicable deaths were all natural, coming in and stealing away the last shreds of one's dignity and self worth through Alzheimer's and organ failure. If dying was something that he had to do, he would rather choose how and a basic time frame.

He would be no one's dog.

And really, that is what it all came down to: being someone's dog. Whether he was obliging the sleeper's faux-innocent requests or following the dictation of a metaphysical power such as fate, he felt sub-human, as if abiding by anyone else's desires was somehow degrading. It made him feel like a dog, like someone had clamped a collar down around his neck, chained him to a desk and forced him to do as he was told, leaning over his shoulder with a sneer and well-used riding crop as they reviewed his work. Just thinking about it made his hands twitch with the need to lash out at something . . . or someone.

Beside him, the sleeper shifted.

Morning saw blood spattered on the sheets alongside dark blotches of sweat and semen, the companion away at work and the sleeper hobbling towards the shower. The long black hair was unkempt and obscured the face from view, but though the sleeper was quite young, there was no mistaking the gender that hung between those smooth legs: male.

The boy fumbled with the handle of the bathroom door, biting his lower lip as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to find a way to carry himself that would be less painful. Blood and sweat had dried on his buttocks and the back of his thighs, smeared and coated thinly where it had mixed with other fluids and dripped down to his trembling knees. The door opened at last, and the boy stumbled inside, catching himself on the edge of the sink just before his legs gave way. He cried out, lowering himself slowly to the cold tiles, resting carefully on the balls of his feet with legs bent beneath him.

It hurt.

It hurt _a lot_.

He sniffed loudly, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms, fighting back the urge to cry. Boys did not cry, no matter how much it hurt. He had learned that lesson back at the orphanage; the older kids had taught it to him using harsh words and broken toys, short sticks and trampled dreams. Mokuba had never forgotten those rough times, and so he blinked back his tears and forced himself to his feet. He needed to take a shower, after all.

And big boys _never_ cry.


End file.
